


Progress

by Azzy



Category: Temeraire - Naomi Novik
Genre: Future Fic, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-03
Updated: 2013-04-03
Packaged: 2017-12-07 09:07:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 932
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/746765
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Azzy/pseuds/Azzy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>July, 1914.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Progress

There was a whisper in the air that told of rain, come at last; the summer drought had lasted long, longer than any had predicted, but now the wind blew chill through the trees and there were clouds gathering swiftly over the hills to the west. A low setting sun with little warmth in it was often obscured, and a brief shaft of sunshine caused Temeraire to squint as he peered down at the device.

“It will be a very fine thing,” one of the generals was saying, to the protests of the others, in that pompous way they all seemed to have these days, “to have such technology in place to support formations -"

“But surely it won't be as easy to manoeuvre – you can't expect men to become as adept as a dragon -”

“I say we should use this before others get hold of it, gentlemen, there is little use in prevaricating -”

“How fast can it fly?” Temeraire asked, laying his chin on the ground in order to gain a better viewing angle, and as usual they all swiftly fell silent. 

“It – it may exceed eighty miles in the hour, sir,” the engineer said after a pause. 

Eighty miles in an hour. Temeraire sat up and rubbed at his nose in order to cover the slight dismay he felt; even with the advent of the Great Races some fifty years ago, no dragon had yet achieved such speeds. “But it cannot carry any great weight,” he said, “certainly not the crew of a heavyweight.”

“No, no,” the engineer said, “light loads only, or I cannot answer for stability or fuel consumption, let alone getting off the ground; but you must admit that this is the time to be adopting new ways. We cannot forever hide in the dark ages.”

Temeraire snorted softly as they began to argue again, and glanced away, up to the skies. Far above, a formation wheeled in practice against the dark sun-lined clouds; the Ninth Company, he thought from the outline of the Longwing in the centre. They were an unmanned company, and as such answered directly to Perscitia, and not to any of the men arguing beside him. It had been a long time since any dragon had been forced to choose the Corps as an occupation, and yet many still chose it, whether for the promise of steady pay or the more uncertain prospect of glory in battle; Temeraire's own offspring led the Seventh, Third and Second companies, though some of his oldest friends remained with the main body of the Corps, working alongside humans as a personal choice. He had had no companion himself for nearly fifty years.

Laurence would probably not have liked the contraption before him. It bore little enough resemblance to the beautiful white-sailed ships that he had loved, and squatting there on the new spring grass it looked oddly out of place, all angles and straight lines, rigid planks of wood held together with tiny screws. Temeraire was reluctantly fascinated by the project; he had long supported and funded scientific exploits such as this, and part of his mistrust was due to the fact that nobody had seen fit to inform him. A manned aircraft that could fly into battle; why, certainly it could have a thousand uses, provided – and here he shifted uneasily; surely all their hard-won independence and cooperation would not so easily be overridden.

The sound of wingbeats behind them made him turn; a courier, flying in towards them at great haste, the strengthening wind against her. She almost misjudged her landing, skidding to a stop just feet away from Temeraire's tail, and gasped, “Sir, sir, urgent from London, requires immediate response -” 

“Settle down, courier,” said one of the generals waspishly, “and hand the damn thing over.”

“Is it to be war?” Temeraire asked her, low, while they gathered around the paper, and she nodded, eyes huge.

“Admiral Perscitia said, sir, if I was to see you, that you're needed in London urgently, and – and you're needed urgently,” the courier trailed off lamely at the end; Temeraire guessed the actual order had been something like 'and drag him here by his tail if he won't come at once'.

“Very well,” he said kindly, “Letty, isn't it? Wait for these gentlemen to give you their response; I shall make my way to London directly.” They had weathered wars before; of course they could do so again. 

Temeraire reared up, shaking out the kinks caused by crouching for so long in the cool evening air, stretching out his wings to their greatest extent. His brief shadow dwarfed the men, the aeroplane, the trees in the valley before the sun was at last finally hidden behind the great storm-cloud; spots of rain were beginning to land on his back when he launched himself skyward, driving with swift strokes north towards the capital. 

Something made him turn before they were out of sight, beating his wings hard to hover and blinking away water as the rain increased, some whisper of a doubt at the back of his mind. Letty was still grounded, a tiny figure now, the generals around her like ants; but the formation above had scattered, some dropping to their landing grounds as rain descended, some wheeling excitedly high above. And although they were far away, too far to hear voices, the quickening wind nonetheless brought one sound to his ears: the low throb of an engine as the aeroplane rose steadily above the hills, a mere speck in the distance, and began to climb through the darkening skies.


End file.
